Never Was a Boy Scout
by chicadoodle
Summary: Without the Institute? He was nothing; just another junkie on his way to a life in the penal system. That was why he was perfect, why he tried so damn hard to be the perfect pupil, the perfect leader. He had to be; he didn't HAVE anywhere else to go.
1. Chapter 1

He was supposed to be perfect. To be their boy scout -- the one they could all look to, when they needed to know where to go, what road to take.

Hell, he never had been a boy scout. Never had been perfect. He had a criminal record -- could probably give Toad a run for his money as for as time spent in Juvie. Juvenile Hall. He couldn't call it Juvie, not out loud at least. He didn't do that.

He almost wanted to laugh sometimes, watching them run around him, make fun of him and his perfect ways. Claim he could never understand their problems, that he had never had any trouble accepting who he was, _what_ he was.

He'd probably had the most trouble out of all of them. Except perhaps Kurt. Kurt had them all topped.

He hadn't been a nice person, back then. Back before Xavier had made his offer. He'd been a junkie, an alcoholic. He knew it -- knew he had a problem saying no. Knew he shouldn't take that extra shot, that hit of some drug or another. But it wasn't until Charles Xavier came along that anything in his life seemed to make any sort of sense.

Without this school? Without the Institute? He was nothing -- just another junkie well on his way to a life in the penal system. That was why he was pefrect, why he tried so _damn hard_ to be the perfect pupil, the perfect leader for all of them. He had to be -- unlike the rest of them, he didn't _have_ anywhere else to go.

Just back to the streets.

It wasn't that he agreed with Charles Xavier; if anything, he agreed with Mystique. Maybe not some of her methods, but with the general spiel. Mutants and humans? They had proven time and again they couldn't coexist peacefully. Human beings? They weren't accepting of those different from them; never had been, never would be. But he had a good thing going here; a shiny red sports car, his own credit card. Gas paid for, always a full stomach. And he wasn't willing to give that up for his ideals. He wasn't that type of person.

They thought he was. Thought he was the perfect boy scout, that he would always do the right thing. It wasn't quite that; he would always do what _Xavier_ thought was the right thing. He couldn't chance being thrown out, being looked down upon.

Not that Professor Xavier knew. He'd taught his star pupil from the very start how to block his mind from telepath's -- taught him a bit too well. Even he couldn't access the mind of one of his first students. And Scott Summers preferred it that way.

Things had been quiet lately; The Brotherhood hadn't made any threatening moves, and Mystique had been surpisingly quiet. Kurt was still reeling from the realization she was his mother, at least in blood, and Rogue was being as difficult as always. Other than that, however, things were relatively quiet; people had finally stopped commenting on his glasses, seeming to at last accept his explanation of an eye condition.

Maybe that was why the sudden silence when he walked into the Institute was so unnerving. Most of the other students had congregated in the living room, and Scott joined them there as he came in from working on his car. It was quiet for a Saturday -- with so many teenagers grouped together in one place, there was usually _some_ sort of mischief being made.

With the vague impression that talking had ceased as soon as he had approached the room, Scott crossed his arms over his chest, raising one eyebrow -- even if the effect was lost because his glasses. "What's going on?" A slight twist of his lips accompanied the question, but he didn't quite expect the uneasy silence that met his words. Even Jean looked guilty, sitting on the couch next to Kitty and twisting her fingers together in her lap.

That was surprising. He'd known Jean longer than any of the others -- she'd arrived a couple of months after him, and for a while it had only been the two of them here. And he knew that she didn't normally get worked up over nothing.

"What happened?" There was concern laced in his words now, the smile gone as he let his arms fall to his sides.

"I--" Jean paused, licking her lips, shifting in her seat before starting again. "I didn't mean-- I shouldn't have listened, Scott. I'm sorry." The last was barely more than a whisper, and Scott frowned, completely confused at this point.

"Dude, you were in _Juvie_?" That from Spyke, and it took Scott a moment to register that the other teen was talking to _him_. His confusion must have registered on his face, for Jean spoke up almost immediately.

"W-we -- I mean, that is, I heard the Professor talking to your ... your social worker. She seems nice."

Scott slowly drew in a deep breath, eyes closed as he slowly exhaled. "Sheila's here?"

"Dude, what'd you go to get into _Juvie?_ What, you steal a candy bar when you were six or something?" Spyke grinned at his own joke, but Scott merely rolled his eyes, knowing the other boy couldn't see it behind his glasses. Instead, he turned his head so it was obvious he was speaking to Jean, shifting his weight to his right foot impatiently.

"Y-yeah. She's still talking to th-" Before Jean could finish speaking, the sound of a door slamming open, followed by Professor Xavier's voice, raised in anger, floated down to them. "Ms. Covington, please, if you could just --"

"Not another word, Mr. Xavier. He comes with me. _Now_."

Scott stiffened at those words, eyes narrowing slightly as he turned so his back was to the other students, not the door he knew his social worker would be coming through at any moment. He wasn't disappointed.

Sheila Covington was of average height -- perhaps a little taller than Jean, though Scott had never bothered to find out how tall, exactly, she was. Her mouse-brown hair was cropped close to her shoulders, falling just as board straight as he remembered it. It had been over two years since he had last seen the woman; having stayed out of trouble all that time, there had been no reason for the visits he had had to live through in the past, in his various foster homes. They had always thought there was a _reason_ he was skipping class; had immediately assumed something illicit was going on.

And they were usually right.

Now, however, her visit remained a mystery as she came slamming in to the room, brown eyes narrowed in anger as she took in the room at large, widening slightly as she took in his attire; not quite what she had been expecting.

How had he dressed, back then? As a hoodlum, a street rat, hooded sweatshirts and dark jeans, usually combat boots. Never anything fancy, never anything expensive; he had never been lucky enough to get foster parents who treated him as one of their own. He had never attempted to dress as he was now; he knew how he looked. Like a rich kid, one of those straight-A nancy boys he and his friends had made fun of at his last school. It had been mostly jealousy, although thre had been some general dislike for the boys -- most of them wouldn't give him the time of day, with his scruffed up boots and jeans with holes in them.

Sheila had been his case worker back then, as well, coming around about once a week -- her or somebody else from her large, stuffy office with too many pictures of her nieces and nephews. He'd asked her once if she kept so many pictures because she didn't have any kids of her own. It was only later, after she had thrown him out of her office in a fit of anger, that he had learned she was barren. It was what had caused her marraige to break up, 8 or 9 years ago. Right before she had taken over his case. He'd felt a little guilty then, but the cat was already out of fthe bag; it was common for him to bring it up now, when he wanted to get a rise out of her.

It was easier to get thrown out of her office, then lisen to her prattle on and on about how he was screwig up his life.

"Sheila," Scott spoke softly, unsure what to say, how to react to her now, after all this time. The last time they had spoken, had been the day Professor Xavier had come to take him away. She had been all for a school for gifted youngsters, completely believing the spiel Professor Xavier had spun for her.

"Get your things, Scottie. You're leaving." Scott stiffened at her words, and Sheila pursed her lips at the movement, remembering well how volatile the young man had been in his youth. True, he looked like he had shaped up during his time here; maybe even started taking school seriously. She certainly hadn't gotten any reports of excessive tardiness or unexplained absences from school.

A snort of amusement came from behind him, and Scott winced internally at the nickname; he hadn't used it since Jean had first come to the institute, preferring to go by Scott. It was his old friends in Bridgeport who had first started calling him Scottie, and the nickname had stuck rather well.

When he didn't move immediately, Sheila reached forward, gripping his upper right arm and yanking him forward, beginning to move out of the room. It was only then that her words truly registered in his brain, and Scott's eyes widened.

Leaving. She expected him to _leave_. "W-wait. What d'you mean, leaving?" He followed after her obediently for a moment, only stopping when she didn't respond.

"I'll explain once we're in the car. Just _get your things_, Scott." Sheila's voice held more than a touch of impatience, and it was written all over her mouse-like face.

Looking helplessly over at Professor Xavier, Scott's heart nearly plummeted to his feet at the small shake of the head he received in response. Just go with her for now, Scott. I'll find out what this is about. You'll be back soon. I promise. He knew Sheila couldn't hear the Professor's voice, but she still glanced between them uneasily, lips pressed into a thin line. She used to be much better at hiding her aggravation ...

But people changed. He was living proof of that.

Nobody followed them as they made their way up to his bedroom, and Scott was silently thankful for that. Nothing was said between the two as Scott searched through his closet for an old duffel bag. It wasn't the one he had used when he first came here, although that was shoved even further into the back of his closet. This, like the rest of this things, was from Professor Xavier -- a part of his new life. Most of his old things he had either thrown away or stored as far away from himself as he could.

It was to these newer things that he went now, packing each article of clothing carefully as Sheila sat on his bed, staring around the room with barely concealed curiosity. It was a far cry from the foster homes of the past; large and spacious, it was all his; four poster bed, relatively new laptop computer on the desk against the wall, mp3 player laid atop that. His school bag he unceremoniously emptied onto the bed, grabbing the notebooks that landed with his science and math books; if there was one thing he remembered from his time in the System, it was how quickly they had gotten him situated in a new school after each and every one of his moves.

The laptop he slipped into the now empty backpack, his mp3 player sliding into the pocket of his jacket, slung across the back of his chair. His wallet found it's way into his back pocket, his cell phone thrown in atop the laptop. A quick zip here, a snap there, and he was ready to go.

Sheila stood up as he finished, frowning as she look over the duffel bag slung over one shoulder, the backpack held in a loose grip. It was more than he usually had for a move from house to house, however, so he merely frowned back at her in confusion. Sheila made no comment, however, merely turned swiftly on her heel and stalking to the door, holding it open for him with a raised eyebrow.

They had been driving for two hours, and already Scott missed his convertible. True, it wasn't practical on the many rainy and snowy days that New York saw -- not to mention during the winter. But at least then he would have something to focus his attention on; as it was, all he could do was think about where they were headed -- his mind going in circles, unable to calm down.

He hated Bridgeport. Even while he had been living there, he had held a general dislike for the town; the people who barely even noticed him, just another face on the streets. And it wasn't s a safe town by any measure. Bridgeport was far too city, and far to close to New York for that.

But Bridgeport had been, above all, his favorite place to live. It wasn't about the city, about the friends he had made. No, it was all about Mikh.

14. That was how old he was when he had been sent to stay at the foster home in Bridgeport, Connecticut. He hadn't gone straight to stay with Mikhail; there had been channels to go through. The bad before the good, and all that rot.

Head leaning against the window as they drove along, Scott couldn't help but smile as he remembered those first few days with Mikh.

The man had rented an old warehouse, fixed it up until even Social Services could find nothing wrong with it. It was small, as far as warehouses went, and not exactly the most beautiful of structures on the outside. But inside . . . inside it had been an entirely different affair. Large and spacious, it had taken him a while to get used to the lack of personal space. True, they were both men -- but it still left something to be desired.

And it had always been so bright. His friends had teased him, that Mikh must have been gay to decorate their house the way he did.

Actually, come to think of it, the man had never shown a preference either way. His entire life had seemed to revolve around Scott; the never ending battle of trying to keep him out of trouble.

And for the most part, failing miserably.

He had finally fallen asleep. Sheila breathed a sigh of relief as she glanced at her young passenger, eyes quickly returning to the road.

He was so _different_. It hadn't been that long, really, since she had last picked him up at the police station for one reason or another, brought him back to his foster father. He'd had a good home there; they'd been unsure, at first, placing him with a single man.

But there had been no doubt after the first couple of months. They belong together, Scott Summers and Mikhail Fraser; more than Scott had ever belonged anywhere else she had tried to place him.

Not many people wanted to take in a teenage boy, especially not one who got in to as much trouble as Scott had. Some of it was just normal teenage roughhousing gone a bit too far, but more often than not their _was_ a sinister element behind it all.

The boy knew how to attract trouble, that was for sure.

Letting out a soft sigh, Sheila glanced once again at her young companion, smiling at the way he had wrapped his arms around his middle, shifting toward the passenger side door and leaning his head against the window. It was position he'd taken often enough, years ago when she would drive him from one house to another, all in the hopes of finding even a short-term placement.

But he wasn't a child anymore. He had grown in the few short years since she had last seem Scott; grown taller, if not fatter. He'd always been so skinny; even now that he was getting plenty to eat that hadn't changed.

And he was certainly getting enough to eat. That house --! She hadn't known, had never actually been there. After all, Mikhail hadn't just fostered Scott; he'd adopted him. She had no say in where he sent his son to school.

Not until he had contacted her, asking for her help.

She wasn't here in her official capacity – no. Actually, she could very well lose her license for doing this. But Mikhail had been so adamant; and his fears did not seem totally unfounded.

She'd done her homework; this Xavier fellow had some impressive schooling, and all his papers were in order to run a school of this nature.

But he also had some shady dealings in his past. Claims of manipulation, of spending a bitat _too much_ time with young boys.

Nothing had ever been proven, of course. He couldn't have opened the school he had, otherwise. But the mere speculation was enough to raise warning alarms in Sheila's mind.

And they had sent Scottie to him.

Sheila let loose a small sigh, hands tightening around the steering wheel as she once again glanced at the sleeping teenager.

He had always been a good kid; a bit rough, though that wasn't surprising considering his past. It was the usual with the children she saw pass through her office; far too many of them ended up in Juvenile Hall for her liking, and for a while it had appeared that was what would happen with Scott Summers.

But he had gotten his act together; had buckled down and actually seemed to be taking school seriously. And she had been proud of him, even if she only ever spoke with Charles Xavier or one of the other teachers at his school. Usually Aurora Monroe, through she had gotten Hank McCoy more and more lately.

And the reports she had gotten were always good; he was working on his car, he was doing his homework, he was helping make dinner. Always helping – he rarely seemed to take any down time, and she had worried at first he would burn himself out, wreck another amazing oppurtunity.

But, no. For over two years now, he had proven himself "redeemed" -- Xavier's words, and though the wording hadn't been what she would have used, she had been proud of Scott all the same.

But perhaps she should have worried more.

"_Scott?_ "

Scott jerked awake, blinking fuzzily as he turned to stare at his case worker, sleepily wondering why she didn't even glance at him after having woken him up so rudely; and for no apparent reason, as they were still driving on the highway.

"_Scott? Are you awake?_" Scott grinned, rolling his eyes behind his glasses as he recognized the voice of Jean.

"_Well, now I am._" He thought with a grin, knowing the other teenager could receive feelings as well as thoughts through the link; she heard it exactly as if he had said it, she had once told him.

A soft laugh tickled through the link, and Scott smiled now at the familiar sensation. The familiarity was soothing, allowing him to relax more fully against the door and close his eyes.

"_Are you alright?_" The question surprised Scott, though perhaps in retrospect it shouldn't have. He **had** been forced to leave rather abruptly; he would have worried for any of the others, in a similar situation. Though he didn't have Jean's ... unique gift for getting to the bottom of things.

"_What did the professor tell you?_" He was a bit worried on that end; what might have been shared, what the man had decided to keep secret. It really wasn't that big of a deal, him having a case worker; none of the other students had ever dealt with the foster care system, save perhaps Rogue, and so they couldn't know what was normal and what wasn't.

But there were other things he would rather none of them knew; things about his past he had tried to hide from even Xavier. The man knew some, he knew. Had weasled all he could out of his favorite student's mind before Scott had learned to shut him out forever.

And he never wanted to see that look of disappointment in Jean's eyes.

"_Nothing!_" Scott could hear the frustration in Jean's voice, and he smiled slightly. Wasn't used to being denied anything from her precious professor, was she?

"_Scott, this isn't funny! Where are you?_" Scott forced himself to remain silent, acutely aware of Sheila sitting next to him. What would she say if he suddenly started laughing? The last thing he wanted was his mental state questioned – again.

"_I'm fine, Jean.Really."_

_"_ Scott ..._"_

_"We're on the highway, Jean. Everything's fine; I'm sure I'll be back in a couple of days, top. I'll let you know when I find out anything else, alright?"_

That seemed to satisfy Jean, as he got the sudden sensation of warmth through the link. Ah, the telepathic hug. Those he had missed perhaps the most, as these conversations had dwindled down to nothingness in the past couple of months.

It seemed they were always busy, always had something more important to do than just _talk_ – even if it was only telepathically.

"_I know. I've missed this too._" Scott smiled at the words, sending a silent apology over the link as he raised his shields a little higher, feeling the frustration on Jean's part through the smaller link as she was unable to access his deeper thoughts – just what he intentionally sent her way.

"_Scott-_"

Scott sent a wave of annoyance over the link, shifting into a more comfortable position against the door of the car. "_I'll call you when we get there, Jean._"

He must have fallen asleep again, for the next thing he knew Scott was being shaken awake by Sheila. Blinking fuzzily, he practically tumbled from the car, grumbling softly at the soft laugh that earned from his case worker.

"Come on, let's get inside. Your father's probably hyperventilating by this point." There was amusement in her voice, and it took a couple of seconds for Scott's brain to actually process what she had said. By the time it did, he was already halfway toward the door of a familiar warehouse, and he stopped dead in his tracks as he turned to stare at his caseworker with a mixture of horror and fear.

"What-"

Sheila didn't wait for him to speak, merely started walking toward the front door. It was on her third knock that Scott snapped out of his shock enough to take a step back toward the car, arms crossing defensively over his chest.

How long had it been since he was here? A few years? Not long enough – not long enough for the hurt of denial to go away.

He had always known Mikh would tire of him eventually; that at some point he would grow too troublesome for the man. He just hadn't expected it to happen quite the way it had. Hadn't expected it to be because of his Powers.

And Sheila obviously didn't understand that. Mikh, at least, knew why he had been sent away; why they no longer spoke, wrote, any of it. There had been rumors, of course, before he had been sent away that the man was considering actually _adopting_ him. Nothing had ever happened with it; not after the disaster he had made of revealing his Powers.

It was alright, though. Mikh had reacted better than some; had never hurt him, hadn't even yelled at him. Just sent him away. All in all, a rather civilized way of handling things.

So why bring him back here? Sheila was going to be disappointed, if she thought she would elicit some kind of happy father-and-son reunion.

As the door crept open, Scott found himself stiffening involuntarily, hands curling into fists as he watched Mikhail step out into the sunshine and warmth of the fall afternoon.

He'd forgotten just how beautiful Connecticut could be at this time of year; even in this rundown area. Far more beautiful that New York had ever appeared to him. Then again, perhaps it was just the sight of Home that tugged at him so.

Either way, Mikhail was staring at him now, dark eyes narrowed slightly as he said something to Sheila. Probably reprimanding her for bringing him here.

Nor surprising.

"He's been quiet." Sheila admitted softly, smiling at the concern etched on Mikhail Fraser's face. He was watching Scott still, and barely even seemed to notice her response for a moment. Finally, however, he dragged his eyes away from the teen to flash a smile down at the woman.

Sheila had always been tall her entire life; it was odd, to find somebody she had to look _up_ to. But she did with Mikhail. Tall and well built, she had been afraid he wouldn't understand how to deal with a child of Scott's special needs.

But he had proved her wrong easily enough; and Scott had clung to him like he hadn't to any of his other foster parents. True, most of those had only taken him in for the monthly check that came with him.

"And Xavier? How long do you think we have before he catches on?" Sheila sighed at the question, shifting uncomfortably.

"A day, maybe two?" Shrugging her slender shoulders, she smiled up at the rather young man, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Do you think he will contact ..."

Sheila cut him off with a wave of her hand, her smile now a sad imitation of even what had graced her face before. "Don't worry about it, Mikhail. Just take care of Scott."

Mikhail nodded, drawing a deep breath before starting toward Scott.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N : Welcome to chapter two! I got a pretty good response from the first chapter, so I decided to continue it; I'm really enjoying this story, though apparently my descriptions were a bit lacking. Trust me, that changed with this chapter! Thanks for that review, **Shon**. Those are the kind of reviews I live for; informative, letting me know what I need to work on :)

I hope y'all enjoy this chapter as much as you seemed to the last one, and don't worry! More to come soon!

As always, reviews are appreciated, whether informative or not. It lets me know how many people are reading and liking this story, even if it's just a one-line review. Enjoy!

-- --

It wasn't long before he was ushered through the door and into an all-too familiar area; pictures of his life here still adorned the walls, an all-too-familiar scowl gracing his face on most of them.

There were smiles, of course. His life hadn't been bad here, not after he had gotten used to the fact that Mikhail wasn't going to send him away for the smallest of infractions.

He had gotten lucky here; almost as lucky as his brother.

Excepts that Alex had been adopted, of course. He'd been close; damn close. Mikh had even brought it up to him from time to time, trying to gauge his feelings. He'd thought he'd given the man nothing but positive feedback, though like an idiot he hadn't wanted to appear desperate; had wanted to be cool and collected, like Mikh.

Mikh now stood on the other side of the room, leaning against the counter the seperated the kitchen proper from the rest of the house. It was one of the few barriers in the house; few walls adorned the renovated warehouse, aside from the two bedroom half-walls that afforded a small amount of privacy.

-- --

It took Sheila several attempts to gain the man's attention, but when she finally did get Mikhail to look at her again, she smiled encouragingly.

"I'm not sure what he's been told, Mikhail. Just ... be careful. We can't be sure ..." Sheila let her words trail off into nothingness,not wanting to voice the fear they both shared in the backs of their minds.

Mikahil said nothing, and Sheila finally sighed, giving a sharp nod of her head as she turned smartly on her heel.

The sound of the door clicking was like a warning alarm in Scott mind, and he stiffened slightly as Mikhail pushed himself to his feet.

Mikhail paused, as if uncertain what to do, what to say. Finally, however, he forced what he hoped was a smile on to his lips, running a hand through dark hair as he sighed. "Why don't you go get unpacked, Scottie?"

Scott said nothing, simply moved to follow the man's instructions. After all, what else could he do?

The room Scott entered was shockingly unchanged from the last time he had stepped foot in it; bed neatly made for once, his posters were thrown haphazardly on the desk. Other than that, the room appeared exactly as he had left it; the majority of his clothes still hanging in the closet, still falling in disarray from his dresser.

It was a small room, but no amazingly so – Mikhail had always told him that a bedroom was a place to sleep, nothing more, and had enforced that by keeping anything and everything out in the rest of the house; books, telivision, games and game stations were all stored out in the house proper – even his school books.

Setting his bags on the bed, Scott, set to unzipping and unpacking, plugging his laptop in as soon as possible and turning his cell phone on.

It wouldn't do for Sheila to take it into her head to take her cell away; cut him off from the rest of the institute.

It didn't take long for several beeps to alert him to the presence of text messages waiting on his phone, and he quickly flipped it open, smiling at the abundance of capital letters and exclamation marks.

The Professor was going to _hate_ his cell phone bill this month.

Dinner at the Institute was a silent affair that night, even Kurt not seeming to have much of an appetite. Charles knew what they were waiting for, what the little looks they sent him every now and again were about. They wanted an update on Scott – something he couldn't give them.

He had run into a roadblock, and one he had expected. True, Ms. Covington had never actually _said_ she was there on official business; she hadn't exactly been forthcoming with _any_ information, truth be told. Only that Scott had to come with her immediately.

But she had never once mentioned her title, her place of work. They had met so many times before, spoken on the phone so often, he had thought she was simply over the formalities.

Apparently he had been wrong.

He _hadn't_ been wrong about her identity, of that he was certain. Circumstances being what they were, the first thing he had _done_ was take a quick peek into her mind – just enough to verify her identity, nothing more.

He had attempted to check in on Scott several times now, but to no avail; the boy had his blocks as strong as ever. He had heard jean complaining about it earlier; apparently he had thrown them up after she checked in on him shortly after he left.

On one hand, he was happy she had thought to use her powers for a _conversation_, rather than just hacking into his head and taking what she wanted. On the _other_ hand, he was upset that she had caused Scott's alarms to be raised, his shields brought up so far that Charles doubted Scott was even aware he was attempting contact.

_Beep_.

Charles sighed internally, wondering if now would be a good time to bring up the idea of cancelling instant messanging on the cell phones. His bill last month ... he may have been rich, but this was getting _ridiculous_.

"It's Scott!" Kurt's cry of surprise got everybody's attention, and Kurt had barely even finished the sentence before the majority of the rest of the students were gathering around his chair, each straining to see what was written on the phone.

**I'm fine, elf. Don't worry. I'll call u in / morn.**

"Why don't you read it out loud to us, Kurt?" Charles listened to the words, sighing in relief. Yes, that sounded like Scott; few other people called Kurt by that nickname aside from Scott and Logan, and Kitty on occasion. But the fact that he _could_ sent a message of any short was a good sign – even if his mind _was_ still blocked to telepathic communication.

Soon, the lively chatter of the rest of the students filled the room, but Charles couldn't help but notice that Kurt had yet to put his phone away; seemed quite intent on sending message after message.

And, if he wasn't mistaken, receiving quite a few of them, as well.

Scott lay back against the headboard of his bed, reminded not for the first time how comfortable his old bed was; much more so than his brand new bed at the Institute. It just hadn't been broken in yet, made soft and pliable after years of usage.

Used beds, in his opinion, were far more comfortable than their new counterparts. There were just some things that got better with time.

Well, some time, at least. After a couple of decades, though, even a used bed could start to look pretty beat up.

Smiling at the alert of another message, Scott flipped his phone open and viewed yet another message from Kurt. The other mutant seemed hell-bent on having an entire conversation over their cell phones; not that he minded. Anything to take his mind off his current surroundings.

**Do u know why they took u?**

Scott sighed, banging his head back against the headboard. Ah, yes. The million dollar question.

**Not yet. Just got here. Gonna see if theres any grub.**

Scott sent the message, worrying on his lower lip as he considered doing just as he had said. He hadn't told Kurt where he was; he didn't think the Professor would be too impressed by his current location. The older man had never been very happy with the way Mikhail had simply up and abandoned him to his fate, never even called him once.

Well, for that matter, he hadn't been too impressed with the lack of communication from his supposed surrogate father, either. But it was different coming from the Professor, somehow.

Wincing at the loudness of another shrill beep from his phone, Scott smiled at the message on his screen.

**Call me when ur done.**

Wincing at the protest from his cramped muscles, Scott stood to his feet and slid his cell phone into his back pocket as he peered around the corner of his bedroom's half-wall. Mikhail could be seen leaning across the counter the seperated the kitchen from the rest of the house, looking over some papers, and Scott chewed on his lower lip for a moment before drawing a deep breath, straightening and walking up behind the older man.

Mikhail hadn't changed much over the two years since they had seen each other; his dark hair was perhaps a bit longer, falling into his eyes and accented by shots of blonde here and there.

The man never had been able to decide on a decent hair color. But then again, he _was_ an artist. That was kind of expected.

Proof of Mikhail's work littered the house, from oil paintings on the walls to half-finished sketches on a long table in front of a low couch. The house was littered with random sketch books thrown here and there, piled in the bookshelves that lined many of the walls and littering the floor in front of the fireplace that was set against the right wall as one walked into the apartment.

The apartment was, actually, very open and airy after one got through the cramped hallway they first entered into. At the end of that hallway it just kind of _opened_ up into the house proper; widening and lengthening, the room sported a fireplace on the right wall, along with a long, low table and two couches, once with it's back to the rest of the room and one to the left of that. To the immediate left of the entrance hallway was the kitchen area, with a small table a little further down. Bookshelves lined most of the free wall space, with the rest of the house open and airy until you hit the far back wall. Three rooms were readily available; to the far left was the bathroom, seperated by a half-wall that blocked everything but the sink from view. To the right of that was Scott's own bedroom, followed by Mikhail's. There was real difference in size between the two, though Mikhail's had far fewer items crammed into the space, making it appear far larger.

His life was outside that room, and he proved it by spending as little time in there as was possible.

Mikhail glanced up as Scott drew closer, smiling tightly as he straightened. "You hungry?"

Scott nodded, opening his mouth to say something as his phone once again gave a shrill beep. Blushing hotly, he reached into his pocket, flipping the phone open as he glanced up at Mikhail, whose face now wore a frown.

**call me we gotta talk**

Scott frowned, double checking the name on the message. What in the world was _he_ doing ...

Shrugging his shoulders, Scott once again pocketed the phone, smiling at the older man.

"Everything alright?" Mikhail asked as he moved into the kitchen opening cupboards and pulling items down even as he glanced over his shoulder at the teenager.

"Yeah, just some friends. Wondering where I am."

Mikhail nodded, moving over to the stove and setting some water to boil.

"You don't have to cook. I could just make myself a sandwich or ... something ..." Scott's voice trailed off into nothingness as the look Mikhail shot him over his shoulder. Right. They had never done that here, had they? A proper meal, every night. Mikh had claimed it was a good way to wind down after a stressful day; sitting down at the table and eating a meal together. He'd thought it corny at first, until he'd realized how true it was.

Moving over to take a seat at the table, Scott watched as Mikhail moved around the kitchen, grabbing at different ingredients and throwing them at seeming random into a pot of sauce that he was only now beginning to warm over the stove.

So, pasta. A regular, back when he had lived here, though they had tried to spice it up from time to time. Pasta, and sauce, was cheap to buy, easy to make, and easily mixed up so it was slightly different every time they ate it. And with money fluctuating so rapidly, they had always been careful – even when they didn't need to be.

A nest egg, Mikh had called it; always live below your means, to ensure you had a place to live next month.

"You wanna grab the plates?" Scott jerked at the sound of Mikhail's voice, blushing at the look the older man threw his way. Nodding jerkily, he stood to his feet and moved to gather the items, only realizing as he was setting them on the table he hadn't even needed to be reminded; he still remembered where everything was.

Shaking his head, he set the plates and forks out, moving back to gather the cups just as Mikhail was moving to drain the pasta. The smell hit him then, and he realized belatedly that he hadn't eaten anything for lunch. Stomach rumbling particularly loudly, Scott blushed as he grabbed the m ilk from the refrigerator, once again taking his seat as Mikhail brought out, first the sauce, and then the pasta itself, both with individual serving spoons.

"Dig in."

Some time later, as Scott was picking idly at his plate and Mikhail was refilling his own cup of milk, a heavy knock came at the door, causing Scott to glance up in surprise and Mikhail to frown in confusion.

"Who the hell --?" Mikhail stood to his feet, wiping his hands on a plain white maupine he had set beside himself for just that occasion. Scott watched him move toward the front door, leaning back in his seat and watching the door was opened.

He couldn't see much past Mikhail, just the impression of another person; male, skinny, speaking softly. Mikhail seemed to have relaxed when he saw who it was, though he didn't invite the man inside. Just stood there talking to him for several minutes.

Finally, he moved back, and Scott was given a good view of an older gentleman; gray hair beginning to whiten, skinny in a pair of jeans and nice shirt under a thin jacket to ward off the cool New England weather.

All in all, he was perhaps the most _normal_ man Scott had seen in the past few months.

"Who was that?" Scott asked as Mikhail once again took his seat. Mikhail simply shrugged, picking up his glass.

"Eh, nobody. Just this old guy I met the other day. How was the ride down here?"

Scott shrugged, knowing a change of subject when he heard it. "Alright. Boring. Slept through most of it."

Mikhail nodded, standing to scrape his plate into the garbage before moving over to the sink. He stood there a moment, hands braced against the edge of the sink, staring down at the drain as if it held the answers to the the very nature of the universe and life itself.

Scott, in turn, watched him, tapping the fingers of his right hand against the underside of his plate. Mikhail finally pushed himself away from the sink with a sigh, facing Scott with a small smile.

"I'm about ready to hit the sack. Try not to make too much noise, alright?"

Scott nodded numbly, watching the older man move toward his room without another word.

So that was it. Act like nothing had happened, like he had never left. That was the ultimate plan?

Mikhail Fraser sat on his bed, head in his hands as he stared down at the floor. He was messing this up, he knew ... but what else was he supposed to do? How did you apologize for _abandoning your son_?

He could have gone on forever with the status quo; Scott in the Institute, he working on his art and shutting out the rest of the world ... if only he hadn't gotten that damned email.

Damn Jordan and his good intentions, anyway. They always caused nothing but trouble.

A suspected pedophile – that was who he had sent his son to live with. Scott had been living with, sleep near ... sleeping with? Had it gone that far? Or had Scott been one of the lucky ones?

Scott had never been particularly lucky.

Standing, Mikhail peeked around the corner of his wall, sighing in relief when he saw Scott was nowhere to be seen. Already sequestered in his room, then. Thank God.

Moving quietly through the house, Mikhail gathered one of his numerous, harmless looking notebooks to him, flipping it open as he moved to the couch.

Instead of the drawings and sketches that usually adorned such a book, newspaper clippings and internet printouts met his view upon opening this book, and Mikhail gathered the first few to him as he set the book aside.

Sitting there, flipping through these again, he found his stomach tightening into a knot of fear once again. It was all speculations, all theories – but Jordan had assured him social services was preparing to step in, remove the man from the school – and probably the children, as well.

He'd gotten the heads up; he'd gotten Scott out of there before it all went to Hell.

It was the right thing to do, he knew; the last thing Scott needed was a scandal like that; nobody did. But he had to think of Scott, not those other kids. He couldn't do anything for them.

Charles Xavier had said he'd protect Scott; teach him how to control his powers, until some day he could possibly take those damn glasses off again.

He'd never said anything about putting a pedophile in that house with him; and apparently this m an had been there from day one! Before he'd ever sent Scott to live there, this damn monster had --!

Mikhail tossed the papers to the side, burying his head in his hands with a shuddering sigh. Rubbing tiredly at his temples, Mikhail stood swiftly to his feet and gathered the papers to him as quickly as he could, the book stuffed haphazardly as he moved back toward his own bedroom.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - -- -- -- -- -- --

Scott could hear his one-time father moving through the apartment from his position on his bed, but he paid it no heed. After all, he had no right to ask questions anymore,did he? Mikh had made that clear two years ago.

Cell phone held up before his face, Scott considered the name attached to his latest text message, chewing on his lower lip as he stared at the name through narrowed eyes.

_What the Hell did Quicksilver want?_

Tapping the fingers of his left hand on the underside of his phone, Scott shrugged his shoulders and tossed the phone onto his desk, rolling over onto his side.

It _was_ Pietro Maximoff, after all. It couldn't be all _that_ important.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - -- -- -- -- -- --

Surprisingly, Scott woke to find he was _not_ going to school.

"So ... I get a day off?" Scott asked with a raised eyebrow, eyeing Mikhail behind red-tinted glasses. It was strange, seeing the man with that new perspective, behind that tint he viewed everything from, now. His memories of the man were so colorful, vibrant, nothing like the subdued quality h is glasses tended to give everything. It was ... unnerving, to say the least.

He had, of course, learned how to differentiate colors over the past two years, so at least he didn't have to add color blind to his list of new qualities. Disabilities. But at the same time, it wasn't the same as _really_ seeing the colors.

Mikhail gave a short laugh, shaking his head. "Not exactly. There's somebody who wants to talk to you before ... well, he just wants to talk to you." Mikhail's smile faltered as he eyed his adopted son, rubbing a hand across his chin.

"Before what?" The hesitation hadn't gone unnoticed by Scott, who continued to watch as Mikhail shrugged on his coat, grabbing the car keys as he turned to face Scott.

Scott, for his part, was already dressed and ready, his cargo pants and plain t-shirt a far cry from his clothes of old; to be honest, he felt strange seeing those clothes hanging in the closet, just waiting to be worn again.

Frighteningly enough, they probably still fit, even after two years of growing. He hadn't grown all that much,really; he had always been tall for his age, and seemed to have stopped growing – vertically, at least – by the time he was 15.

Just before he had left for the Institute.

Mikhail shrugged, offering another weak smile as he places his hand on the back of Scott's right shoulter. "Come on, we're going to be late."

He had really thought he was doing the right thing. But now, watching Scott disappear through the door of the psychiatrist's office, Mikhail wasn't so sure.

Would a return to nromality been better? Asking Scott himself, after he'd had some time to adjust to life in Connecticut, instead of forcing him into a session with a complete stranger right away?

It was too late now, of course; the Psychiatrist would question it if he were to barge in there and pull Scott out, and the questions would be never ending from the teen himself; and the last thing he wanted was another screaming match with Scott.

So Mikhail waited,and he worried.

After all, what else could he do?

-- --

**maupine**: it's an italian thing. Kind of like a napkin, only larger and usually used in the kitchen while cooking; not generally used as a napkin, although i've known several people who have done just that. And considering all those people were either _from_ connecticut or were currently living there ... I decided to go with the stereotype :)


	3. Chapter 3

A/N And again a wonderful response! I **am** looking for a Beta, but until I find one, please ignore any errors in spelling you might find; they should be few, considering I _do_ have a spell-checker at my disposal, but a few always slip through the cracks :)

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_There will be high and lows, so only you will know ... _

_But don't ever take it for granted, 'cause it's more than so-and-so sees._

This was ridiculous.

Scott watched the psychologist take a seat behind his desk, pushing thin glasses up a narrow nose. The silence was nearly stifling, and Scott shifted uneasily as he watched the older man lift a clipboard and read it silently, thin lips turned down into a frown. Finally raising sharp eyes to meet Scott's own shaded ones, he leaned back in his seat.

"Tell me, Scott, how did you like your time at Xavier's Institute?"

Scott blinked, raising one dark eyebrow behind tinted glasses. "Fine." He shrugged his shoulders, shifting slightly in his chair. "What's all this about?"

Straight, and to the point. The older man made a note on the clip board held loosely between two thin, aged hands before glancing back up at Scott. Leaning forward, he placed the clipboard on the desk before him, clasping his hands together tightly and placing them on the smooth surface of the desk beneath the clipboard.

"Scott, there have been some concerns raised about the level of care being given at this Institute." Standing to his feet, the aged doctor moved around to lean back against the front of the desk, hands braced firmly against the edge. "Did you enjoy your time spent there? I understand you attended the local high school?"

Scott shrugged again, glancing down and to the side, staring at the hard wood floor beneath his feet as he shifted into a more comfortable position, hands braced against the wide arms of the chair. "What kind of concerns?" If the doctor could have seen his eyes, he would have noticed Scott's blue-green eyes narrowing sharply. As it was, he noticed the way Scott's hand tightened around the right arm of his chair. Another note in the clipboard, and Scott took a deep breath.

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, we go to the local highschool." Scott rolled his eyes, safe behind his red-tinted glass. Some people had claimed, in the past, the Scott wasn't very open with his expression, that nothing ever showed through on his face. This was far from true; they just couldn't see his eyes.

And he took full advantage of that.

"And how is that?"

Scott shrugged again, twisting his lips slightly as he realised that seemed to be all he was doing lately. Not that any other response would have been any more appropriate; stupid questions deserved such answers. "It's a school."

As if that was the most obvious thing in the world; and usually, it would have been. However, that wasn't quite was the aged doctor was looking for, as evidenced by the sudden tightening of his thin lips as he shifted against the hard edge of his desk.

"I understand there are several teachers employed at the Institute? Can you tell me why that is?"

Scott frowned, wondering for a moment what the older man was talking about. Teachers --? Well, Storm was sort of like a teacher he supposed, and Wolverine certainly put them through enough drills in the Danger Room. "Private lessons." He finally admitted, shrugging his shoulders. "Always keeping us a step ahead of the competition."

"Competition?"

"Other kids, you know. At the school." It was a weak response, Scott knew, but he hadn't been prepared for this sudden bombardment of questions, and it was showing through in his body language, in the weak lies where he would usually had been able to come up with something quite a bit stronger.

"Could you describe these 'private sessions'?" The older man reached behind himself, plucking his clipboard up off the desk as he hastily scribbled a couple of notes.

"Mostly just physical training and stuff." Scott shrugged his shoulders, relaxing back against the plush armchair he had been pointed toward upon entering the room. "Storm would help us with homework, though."

"Storm?"

"Ms. Monroe." Scott quickly amended, a faint blush coming to his cheeks.

"It's an interesting nickname." The doctor commented, and Scott merely shrugged in response. What kind of response could you _make_ to a comment like that?

Fingers digging in to the arms of the chair, Scott cast around for something to say, _anything_ to say, to alleviate the uncomfortable silence that had descended over the room. Then again, why should _he_ be the one to instigate conversation here? The doctor finally finished scribbling something down on his little clipboard - what the hell could he have said to provide him with so much to write about?

Scott watched apprehensively as the man rose to his feet, fake smile stetching thin lips. "Why don't we go find you're father?"

--

_A shrink?_

_**Ya, can u believe it?**_

Kurt Wagner stared down at the most recent message from Scott Summers, blinking rapidly in the hopes that the message would change.

_why?_

It as the only thing he could think to ask, but apparently Scott had been expecting the question.

_**Somthin bout the lvl of care the institute? ???**_

Okay, that made ... absolutely no sense whatever. Eyes narrowing, Kurt stared at the message for a moment or two longer, before sighing and beginning to type once again.

_Does the prof no?_

_**how should i no?**_

Kurt almost laughed out loud at that, lips quirking upwards into a slight smile. Nobody had really been up to their normal standards lately, not since Scott had left. They were all too worried.

There were very few constants in their lives, especially lately. But Scott being around was one of those constants. Jean left to visit with her family, as they all did, but Scott and Rogue were constant fixtures. True, most of the other students didn't dare try and strike up a conversation with the Gothic Queen, as they had dubbed her behind her back, but she was just as much a constant as Scott.

And now that Scott was no longer there, nobody was quite sure what to do with themselves. Danger Room sessions had all but ground to a halt, even Logan not putting up much of an effort to keep them going.

A shrill beep emnating from his own cell phone alerted Kurt to the presense of yet another text message waiting, and he eagerly flipped his phone open.

_**gotta go. call u later**_.

Sighing, Kurt flipped his phone closed, leaning back against the headboard of his bed. What the hell was going _on_?

Scott slipped his cell phone back into the pocket of his jeans, leaning his head against the window of the car door. They were heading back to the house, now, to get some lunch. They rarely ate out; Mikhail had always gone on and on about how bad the food at the various fast food resturaunts was for them.

Therefore, he was more than a bit surprised when they pulled in to the drive-thru of a Wendy's, Mikhail leaning slightly out of the window to order two chili's and soda's, debating for a moment before continuing on to order two burgers. It was they were driving around to pay and collect their food that Scott finally spoke. "Fast food?" He asked, raising one eyebrow, and Mikhail grinned slightly, glancing at him quickly as he pulled the car to a stop.

He was silent for a moment as he paid, and as they waited for their food he finally spoke. "Eh, I've been slacking." He admitted, another grin following this statement, one which stayed as he accepted the food and set it between the seats, near the emergency brake.

"I heard you got your license." He commented as they were waiting for a break in traffic, glancing once over to Scott before facing ahead once again.

Scott nodded, shrugging his shoulders. "Professor X got me a car." He admitted, reaching over and taking one of the soda's nestled between them, filling the silence by taking the wrapper off his straw and taking a slow sip of the pepsi within.

Mikhail had always called it his one vice; caffeine. Usually it came in the form of tea and soda, far more rarely coffee; only in a true pinch, like one of those nights where he would stay awake all night and then still have a full day afterwards. They had an espresso machine, though Mikhail rarely let him use the espresso part; only the steam wand, for making hot chocolate and other smiliar concoctions. Technically, they had all the works for a coffee shop .... something he had missed at the Institute.

Lost in his thoughts, Scott started as Mikhail spoke once again. "He got you your own car?" There was an odd note to the older man's voice, and Scott glanced at him around his drink, straw still inside his mouth, one eyebrow raised.

"Yeah, a convertible." He admitted after replacing the drink to his left, where Mikhail instantly took it in his own hand to take a healthy sip. Scott merely rolled his eyes, quickly reclaiming his drink once the older man was done with it.

They drove in silence for several minutes, weaving through traffic until they reached the less busy roads their warehouse home was located on. As they pulled into the driveway, however, Scott noticed Mikahil's shoulders tense, confused until he noticed the car in the driveway - one he recognised from the garage back at the Institute. The Professor had rarely used it, saying it was a bit too flashy for his tastes, but it was one he had used from time to time when his own car was in the shop, so he knew it well.

Slowly stepping out of the car, soda still in hand, Scott started at a barked command from Mikhail. "Scott, stay here." There was a note of command there that Mikhail had rarely used with him in the past, and it was that, if nothing else, that halted Scott in his forward movement toward the front door, which had been left open.

As Mikhail made his way up to the door, the Professor appeared suddenly, as if he had been there the whole time; probably hiding just out of sight and waiting for them. Logan was just behind him, and Scott smiled slightly at the familiarity of it. Instead of smiling like Scott had been expecting, however, Mikhail came to a sudden halt, back ramrod straight as he stared at the two men waiting inside his house.

"I believe you understand the concept of trespassing, do you not?" He asked stiffly, and Scott started at the coldness in his foster father's voice, turning startled eyes on the man from where they had rested on the Professor and Logan.

Perhaps just as surprising was how un-surprised the Professor was, or how Logan said nothing scathing in return. Eyes moving back and forth between the two inside the house and Mikhail, Scott hesitated by the car - hesitated so long that the Professor finally spoke.

"Scott, if you could please get in the jeep?" As Scott continued to hesitate, the Professor's voice came through, loud and clear inside his mind. _Scott, please. I'll explain everything later. Just get in the car_.

Outside his mind, however, conversation was continuing to flow, with movement not far behind. "Scott, in the car. **Now**." Mikhail was moving toward him, gripping his arm almost painfully and pushing him toward the open door of the car. Too surprised by the movement, Scott allowed the door to be closed behind him, Mikhail circling around to slide into the driver's seat.

"What the crap is going on, Mikh?" Mikhail gave him a strange look, and Scott flushed as he realised it was the lack of profanity- he certainly hadn't taken such strides to clean up his language ini the past.

_Scott, get out of the car._ Scott's hand moved instantly toward the door handle, his immediate reaction being to follow the Professor's orders. Mikhail chose that moment to begin backing out of the driveway, however, perhaps a bit too fast, a bit more dangerously than usual, and Scott's fingers curled into his hand, forming a fist. He wasn't an idiot, and had no wish to end up splattered on the pavement underneath the car.

Mikhail glanced at him, frowning, and Scott drew a deep breath at the continued voice in his mind. _Scott, where is he taking you?_ Scott met his foster father's eyes, his own shielded behind his glasses, but that did nothing to hide the expression on his face, and Mikhail sighed loudly.

"Great. He's a telepath, isn't he?" At Scott's hesitant nod, Mikhail gave enother sigh, rubbing a hand across his chin, glancing away even as Scott winced at the continiued racket inside his he!ad.

_Scott!_ If one could yell within another's head, that was exactly what Professor Xavier was now doing, and Scott turned to stare out the window in the direction of the warehouse. Noticing the look, Mikahil reached over with one hand to grap the back of Scott's head, causing the teen to once again lock his eyes on the older man.

"Scott, I need you to listen to me very carefully, alright?" At Scott's continued silence, Mikhail glanced at the road once, eyes flickering back to Scott before steadying on the road, most of his body turned toward the teenager. "There's some stuff happening at the Institute. Stuff I **don't** want you involved in."

"What do you mean, 'stuff'?" Scott asked warily, eyes trained on the other man's face.

"One of your so-called 'teachers' have been implicated in a pretty serious crime, and that place is gonna be **crawling** with police and social workers, not to mention child protective services. I know you're not a kid," Mikhail sent him a wry look, and Scott flushed as he remembered many a time when they had argued about that topic in the past. "However, in the eyes of the law you **are**, the same as all the other kids there. Hell, you're one of the oldest!" Giving another frustrated sigh, Mikhail moved his arm back to curl around the back of Scott's chair, turning so he was facing the road more clearly.

"Who?" Scott spoke softly now, eyes trained on the road as he tried to think of what one of them could have done, who it could have been.

"Logan. You know, nobody even knows his last name? There are no damn records, nothing. You know anything about that?" Mikhail glanced at him, and Scott shrugged at the feel of those eyes on him.

"He doesn't remember much, I know that. The Professor's been trying to help him out. He's not really a teacher though - more like a physical trainer." Mikhail gave a short laugh, shaking his head. "What?"

"Nothing. Makes sense, I guess. Gives him unlimited access to the kids, at any rate."

"What'd he **do**, Mikh?" Scott turned to stare at his foster father, who in turn sighed and brought both his hands to the wheel, shifting in the seat as he stared ahead at the road.

"Nothing, Scott. Nothing."

Scott didn't buy that, not even for one second. He wouldn't have been brought back on _'nothing'_, wouldn't have been made to see a flippin' _therapist_.

Mikh wouldn't have run at the first sight of the man over nothing.

"Mikhail ..." There was exasperation in his voice this time, and Mikhail winced. There had once been a time when Scott would have trusted him implicitly, above and beyond all others. But those days were gone. And he had been replaced.

"Scott, just trust me, alright?" Mikhail didn't dare glance at the teen, too afraid of what he would find. How he longed for the days when those words would have been unnecessary ... when it would have been a given, that trust. He'd never had to explain himself, back in those days; never felt the need, neve been expected to.

Running a hand through his hair, Mikhail gripped the wheel tightly with one hand, the other remaining tanled in his own dark locks. "It's complicated, Scottie. Just ... trust me, alright?"

Great, now he was repeating himself. And reverting to childhood nicknames. Scott hadn't gone by that name in a long time, he knew. Preferred Scott now, preferred his little red sports car and credit cards, preferred his mansion and the high life he had been living with his precious Professor Xavier.

He wasn't being fair, Mikhail knew. Wasn't even giving Scott a chance. Hell, he would have loved to give Scott those same things, to give him the_ oppurtunity_ to become a stuck-up brat. And he couldn't blame a person for taking advantage of what was being practically shoved at them.

He'd tried to give Scott everything he could have ever wanted - but somehow he had always fallen short. Maybe they were right - maybe he _had_ been too young for this. He was only in his thirties - perhaps twenty four had been too young to adopt kid, especially one as messed up as Scott had been. But he'd seen the need in the kid, the minute he'd sulked into the room, in touble for one thing or another at the foster home he'd been visiting. He'd actually been there for another reason - there were a couple of kids he'd been interested in from their profiles. But Scott ... something had just clicked.

And for all intents and purposes they'd been good for each other - Scott had drawn him into the real world, away from work. And he had drawn Scott out of the memories.

"Mikh, it's not that I don't trust you." _I don't, but I'm not about to tell you that_. "But you've gotta give me _something_. Does this have anything to do with the shrink?"

Mikhail gave a short laugh at that, shaking his head with a small smile forming on his lips. "Yeah, Scott. It's got something to do with the 'shrink'. Didn't you recognise Dr. Bellard?"

_Dr. Bellard. _Should the name have meant something to him? Scott searched his memory, frowning. Had Mikh ever taken him to see a shrink before? No, the last time had been ...

_The Foster Home. Cold. Confused. Clothes too tight, wrists still itching, raw and red._ Scott's breath caught at the deluge of memories - memories he had done his best to block from the Professor or Jean. Memories he wished he could forget. He envied Wolverine - that the man could forget all those years, all the hurt, all the pain. He wished _he_ could.

Especially that year. That place ... that man.

Mikhail nodded. "Remember him now?" He asked, glancing over at the teen with a raised eyebrow.

Scott merely nodded, clearing his throat before attempting to speak. "Why him?"

_Why make me see him again? Why dredge up these memories?_

"It's complicated, Scott. Look, how about we stay at the hotel, alright? The nice one downtown. We can even pick you up a pair of swim trunks at Wal-Mart in a bit. Pool, Sauna, Hot Tub ..." Mikhail flashed a grin as his adoptive sun, sending a quick wink his way before once again focusing on the road ahead of them.

Scott sighed, falling back onto the hotel bed. Mikh had outdone himself this time; Two king sized beds, and armoire between them, stood opposite a long buraeu that stretched from one side of the room to the other. The wall above the bureau was decorated with a large flatscreen telivision, and there was plenty of room to move around. He'd only just left to get the promised bathing suits, with a warning that the hotel staff had been informed not to let him leave the premises - alone or otherwise. He wasn't even sure if that was possible - could they _really_ stop him from leaving if he chose to? But it was probably best not to chance it. After all, he _was_ a minor, if only for another year, and Mikh was his legal guardian.

Even if he acted more like a big brother most of the time.

But he had been the one to take care of Scott, when he needed it the most; the one to put his faith in a kid so messed up, everybody else had pretty much given up hope. And that was hard to forget - harder than he'd thought. It had been easy, he supposed, back when Mikhail had all but given up on him, cut off all ties. They hadn't spoken in over a year - hell, two years almost. Ever since he had come to the institute ... not so much as a letter, a postcard, a birthday present. Nothing.

He should have been bitter; should have been angry. But he wasn't really that surprised. It took a special breed of people to accept a mutant child - even those that were blood related. And Mikh had already done so much, taking him in the way he had ... he was asking too much, if he expected the man to accept _this_.

So why come back? Why step in, after so long? It didn't make any _sense_.

Scott liked his life; liked how it flowed, as much as anything in a mutant's life could flow these days. He liked his car, his room, his credit card. Liked knowing his place in the world - or at least the institute. Liked how the other teenagers, at least, looked up to him; liked that even Logan held a grudging respect for him . . . and all because they didn't know all the sordid details of his past.

Here, the luxury of that anonymity was gone; here, everybody knew. And they all treated him like he was made of glass.


	4. Chapter 4

He was twelve years old when he entered Hell.

It wasn't like the old stories; there was no fire and brimstone, though the Devil made his playground nonetheless. He made his presence known in the little things; happy moments intertwined with those of sheer pain. Normalcy had not been a good book, a glass of juice, cartoons on a sunday morning. Those things; they had been fantasy to him, not something that ever entered his life.

His life was a cage, chains around his wrists, constant cramps from staying in one position for too long. His world was a gag in his mouth, a blindfold around his eyes.

His days were spent in sleep, his nights at work. He never questioned why he was not allowed to see his tormentor; never asked much of anything, throat too raw from ... _other _works The blindfold rarely came off, the shackles rarely removed; at times the man would bathe him, others he would be unceremoniously shoved into the bathroom, shackles undone. He was left to remove the blindfold on his own, and his eyes invariably felt strange, his face almost ... incomplete, without the familiar weight of the blindfold weighing it down.

Light was something he barely remembered; even his dreams were dark, even when he dreamt of leaving this place. It was always night in his dreams, always dark.

He rarely dreamt of escape after the first two or three months, slipping into compliance surprisingly easily. It was easier than he had imagined, and the pain from their interactions lessened considerably when he did not fight it; when he simply let it happen.

His complaince was not, however, something his jailer had counted for, and it was, perhaps, that which eventually brought about his eventual departure from the man, and the life he had grown to accept.

It happened suddenly, his freedom. He had almost forgotten what it was like, to be in the system, pushed around from foster home to foster home.

But he never forgot that face.

_... Drawing a monster with a devlish grin and dark eyes_

He had only ever caught small gliimpses of the man deemed his 'foster father' by the system; one of the few he had remained with for more than a handful of weeks. That made him more patient than most, in the eyes of his social worker.

Right up until she saw him after he had been 'sent back'. He never really saw her unless something went wrong; unless he _did_ something. Perhaps some kids would have gotten in trouble more often, if it meant seeing one of the few constants in their lives. But considering he had never really liked the woman, that arrangement worked just fine for him.

He wasn't quite sure how he made it from the car to the door of the foster home on his own but the minute Sheila opened that door, he knew something was wrong. The anger drained from her face, replaced by a look of shock, tires squealing in the background seeming to barely even register. Finally, she knelt down before him - her tall, he short.

His thirteenth birthday had passed in that place, and he found that she was not quite so tall as he remembered her; not quite so imposing. Was that why he had been sent away? Because he had grown? He had often received comments and praise for his small size, but if he had grown ...

It had been one of his first lessons, however; do _not_ make sound. Don't ask, don't plead, don't _talk_. It was a rule he head learned well, and learned fast. But that didn't mean his nights were silent; far from it. He was quite used to the sound of other's voices - sometimes raised in anger, other times softened in praise.

It was the tone of voice that mattered, he knew; not what was actually said. But the tone Sheila now used; it wasn't one he was prepared for, wasn't one he knew how to respond to. So he had said nothing, remembering, as always, that silence was always the best response.

Sometimes he was encouraged to make noise, mind you; to scream, to cry. But never to talk. That was forbidden.

Sheila had gripped his shoulders, then; pulling him closer, and he allowed the contact only because he knew the punishment that came from pulling away; that was almost as forbidden as speaking.

She was speaking again, fear still dripping from her words, and for a moment he thought she had asked him a question, but instantly thought better of it. Why ask _him_ anything?

He was drawn into the house then, and he was internally thankful for the reprieve from the _openness_ of the outside world; he wasn't used to it, and it quite honestly frightened him. He wasn't allowed outside - he knew that. There had been a time when it _had_ been allowed, he knew, but that seemed so far away and an age ago, that he had a hard time even picturing it.

Inside, another woman waited, this one he did not know, and that scared him most of all. He wasn't allowed near other people - only the Man. It had been so long since he had seen a new person, he'd almost forgotten the outside world existed. She was staring at him now, too, this other woman, and he frowned as he realized she was speaking, looking right at him.

The Man never looked at him like that, meeting his eyes. He only ever spoke later into the night, and even then his face would be pressed against a collarbone, a stomach, a leg. Always muffled. But that was okay; it wasn't the words he listened to, anyway.

The stranger was turning away now, and he breathed a small sigh of relief as she focused her attention on Sheila.

He was tired - so very tired. Last night had been the worst in a while, and he hadn't even been allowed the sleep the day away like he usually was; it had been before noon, hadn't it, when he had been pulled out of what could only be deemed 'his room', into some clothes that barely fit anymore and pushed into the car. He'd been too tired at the time, too sore, and even now he felt as though the ground was coming up to swallow him.

An alarmed gasp met his ears just before he collapsed to the ground.

_Said he comes nights for long visits, the kind that make you cry ..._

He was not accustomed to waking to sunlight. His life had been lived in darkness these past months, and the sunlight now hurt his eyes. His wrists felt strange without the shackles around them; large black leather affairs, they had been studded and fit rather well around his small wrists.

Now, his wrists were bare, and harshly red from being pulled and pushed against those bonds for so long. Parts itched, only to burn when he put nails to flesh. He ignored the pain; he had grown used to it in much large doses, and continued to scratch idly at the sensitive skin.

His nails were short; they had been cut once a week, or so he had been led to believe. It was the only way to gauge how long he had been there, and it had been a rather good indication of the day of the week. Always on sunday his nails would be cut, and he would be bathed. He had wondered if the Man was religious; if that was why it happened on sunday. But even in households that were not religious, Sunday had always had the feel of a relaxed day, so he hadn't dwelled on it for too long, or too often.

So, by that account, this had to be a ... thursday? Frowning, the small boy - for he was, indeed, far too small for his age - slipped out of bed, standing there for a moment. He stared down at himself in confusion - at the flannel night pants and plain black t-shirt. They weren't his usual night-time - or any-time - attire, which was really only the skin he had been born in.

Not that they weren't comfortable - for they were. It just ... added to the confusion.

The door was closed, and he hesitated a moment before turning away from it, crawling back into bed. No, he wouldn't tempt fate, not yet anyway.

He had never remembered his dreams upon waking before - probably because he was so tired, it was more a state of unconsciousness rather than pleasant dreams. He didn't dream for a long time.

_Other kids draw suns and rainbows, and cute little houses and trees._

When next he woke, Sheila was there, along with another person - a man in a dark business suit. He knew an instant dislike for that man.

They ended up in a room alone, he and that man. The room itself was filled with toys and all he would need for an art project, but Scott touched none of them ... not at first, anyway. He simply watched the man.

They stared at one another for what seemed like an eternity, until his hands began to shake ever so slightly. Finally, the man leaned forward ever so slightly. "Scott, can you tell me where you got that bruise?" He indicated a rather nasty looking bruise on Scott's arm, where He had gripped harder than normal. Scott glanced down at the bruise, frowning. Shrugged.

And so it went.

The man would ask a question, and he would answer nonverbally - a shrug of the shoulders here, a nod or shake of his head there. The entire session passed by without a single word from the young boy, and Sheila, watching from behind the one-way glass screen, felt her breath catch painfully in her throat.

As the session wore on, Scott's eyes would invariably move to the many writing and drawing materials scattered about the room, and Sheila breathed a small sigh of relief as the doctor - Dr. Bellard - finally drew them closer to the boy. "Would you like to draw Scott?" Another noncommital shrug, but this time it was accompanied by action - Scott reached for a single crayon - black - and a sheet of construction paper.

Dr. Bellard breathed a small sigh of relief, watching the boy bend his head, red hair falling in front of his eyes as he set to his task.

_With the crayon hidden in his pocket, he just draws what he sees ..._

A/N Yeah Yeah, I know, Sudden song lyrics. However, they fit rather well with the story idea after I edited them a bit - though old country isn't quite what I see Scott Summers listening to! All the same, hope you guys enjoyed, even if it was a long time in coming! And, well ... also rather disturbing. Hmm. Enjoy!


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